


When All is Said and Done

by sussexbound



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Brief reference to prior romantic relationships, Don't copy to another site, Estrangement, First Kiss, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John's letter, Light Bondage, Love Confessions, M/M, Post TST, Reconciliation, Reconciliation Sex, Reference to John's marriage to Mary, TLD and TFP never happened, inconvenient erections, showering together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:08:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26553355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sussexbound/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: Sherlock sits down on the bench in the middle of the pod and fishes around in the pocket of his coat for the cigarettes he keeps there.  There’s a decal on the window that says ‘no smoking’ of course, but…“Do you mind if I smoke?”He sees the sound of his voice register in the man’s body like a bolt of lightning._________________________________________“Fuck.”John whispers it aloud before he can catch himself.He wants to—to…He squeezes his fingers into a fist, lets the pain of his nails digging into his palms ground him, sniffs back all the things he wants to say, breathes in, breathes out.“No smoking in here, mate.”And then he waits.There is a stretch of silence that feels palpable, almost physical in its weight, and then…“John?”There is disbelief in Sherlock’s voice.A disbelief that sounds real.A disbelief and a hope John wouldn’t have, couldn’t have, imagined on his own.Real.Real then.Good.  Good, because John isn’t at all sure if he’s awake or dreaming, living or dead, and there’s some sort of sick comfort in the fact that he’s not the only one afloat without a tether.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 132
Kudos: 645
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Fandom Trumps Hate 2020 Charity Auction offering for [@thegirlfromthesouth](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/thegirlfromthesouth) and [@khorazir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir) to whom I owe my eternal thanks, not only because they have been insanely patient in waiting for this thing, but they were also kind enough to let me combine their prompts into one longer story, instead of writing each of them their own shorter story.
> 
> I also owe a huge debt of thanks to [@Irrevocably_Sherlocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrevocably_Sherlocked/pseuds/Irrevocably_Sherlocked) for betaing this thing. I'm sure it wasn't easy. Any errors that remain are mine and mine alone.

Sherlock doesn’t remember when it started.

He’s been doing it for years, wandering the dark streets of London on those nights when his mind is both too loud and too quiet all at once, when he feels at risk of tumbling into the abyss of it, electric, suffocating, dark as a starless night, and yet somehow blinding him to all logic, all common sense, all of the little lies he’s learned to tell himself over the years, to drag himself out of these spaces, these places.

When he needs it all to stop, he walks.

The city is still pulsing with life. Darkness has fallen. But it’s winter. It comes early. People are starting to get into a holiday mood. Steps are lighter (drag), eyes brighter (drop and fall away). The usual seasonal marriage of hope and despair.

Sherlock passes by the aquarium but doesn’t look, treats it like a cemetery at the proverbial witching hour—sacred, cursed. Best to be avoided, at any rate. 

The London Eye looms ahead, lit soft purple, turning on its predictable circuit. Views for days. The city below, distant and glittering, a galaxy fallen to earth.

He’s in the mood. 

“Last pod of the night, mate. Best hurry.” 

It seems most people have more important things to do on a Tuesday evening in early December. There is only one other person in the pod as the doors slide shut behind him.

_________________________________________

It was supposed to get easier. 

That’s what John’s therapist had said.

It would take time.

It would hurt less.

Things would start to slot back into place. 

It would never be the way it was, but it  _ would _ come—that new normal.

John’s therapist had said that many times over the years. With every new loss, it was always the same promise.

It never happened.

Tonight is a bad night.

Holidays are close.

Harry and Stella had decided to go to Paris for the month, and asked to take Rosie with them. Of course he had said yes. She practically lives with them already, anyway, and the holidays are—well, they’ve never been a good time.

But tonight the empty flat had seemed too much. The siren song of old habits creeping in, the amber glow of a bottle stuffed in the back of the kitchen cabinet, and more worrying still, the whispers of ghosts, ghosts he longs to curl up with, just for awhile, just a few hours of comfort. But it’s not real. He knows that. He knows it’s dangerous. 

And so he walks.

And when he ends up at the aquarium, somehow, some way (how? HOW?!), he can’t. He just can’t. He walks five minutes longer. He gets a ticket. He walks into a dimly lit pod of glass and finally feels like he can breathe as the doors click shut behind him.

He’ll rise above it all for a bit, even if it’s only fifteen minutes to reach the peak. For a few minutes he’ll be on top of the world. 

_________________________________________

Sherlock takes in the pod’s only other occupant. 

He’s standing at the far end, looking out over the Thames. He is aware of Sherlock’s presence, that’s clear, but he seems trapped in his own head and not at all interested in chit-chat. It suits Sherlock fine. 

The man has a brown tweed flat cap pulled down over silver hair, and from the little Sherlock can see of the line of his jaw, seems to be sporting a trimmed but slightly scruffy beard also shot through with grey. His spine is a straight, unyielding line. There’s something of John about him, a great deal of John about him, Sherlock thinks, and then berates himself for a fool. Best not to let his traitorous brain go there. Therein lies madness.

Sherlock steps over to the railing at his left and stares down at the pod just leaving the dock behind them. It’s empty. There will be no delays then. Thirty minutes even, a reliable, comforting round. 

Sherlock sits down on the bench in the middle of the pod and fishes around in the pocket of his coat for the cigarettes he keeps there. There’s a decal on the window that says ‘no smoking’ of course, but…

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

He sees the sound of his voice register in the man’s body like a bolt of lightning.

_________________________________________

“Fuck.”

John whispers it aloud before he can catch himself. 

He wants to—to…

He squeezes his fingers into a fist, lets the pain of his nails digging into his palms ground him, sniffs back all the things he wants to say, breathes in, breathes out.

“No smoking in here, mate.”

And then he waits.

There is a stretch of silence that feels palpable, almost physical in its weight, and then…

“John?”

There is disbelief in Sherlock’s voice. 

A disbelief that sounds real.

A disbelief and a hope John wouldn’t have, couldn’t have, imagined on his own.

Real. 

Real then. 

Good. Good, because John isn’t at all sure if he’s awake or dreaming, living or dead, and there’s some sort of sick comfort in the fact that he’s not the only one afloat without a tether.

“Don’t.” It's all he can manage.

He hears the breath escape Sherlock’s lungs.

John looks at his watch. “Twenty-five minutes. Can you manage to keep your mouth shut for twenty-five minutes, do you think?”

He gets no reply.

_________________________________________

Sherlock stares at John’s back and tries to remember to breathe, tries to will his brain to remember how to make words, now, when it’s so important. 

Two years. It’s been almost two years since he’s laid eyes on John Watson. Truth be told, he hadn’t been sure that he would ever see him again.

After everything, there had been a letter. A piece of paper painted with rage, grief, and pain buried under a thin veneer of civility. Sherlock had read it so many times it is permanently etched on his brain:

> _ I used to think you were the best thing to ever happen to me. Then you left and I thought you were the worst. _
> 
> _ When you came back, I thought maybe… But of course you wouldn’t. You couldn’t. You can’t, can you? You just can’t manage to be human.  _
> 
> _ My mistake, expecting it. Won’t happen again. _
> 
> _ A fucking sociopath. You told me that years ago, didn’t you. I should have listened. _
> 
> _ She’s dead. You’re not.  _
> 
> _ So, I’m doing now what I should have done a long time ago.  _
> 
> _ I’m dead, too. And you’re dead to me. Let’s leave it at that. _
> 
> _ Don’t try to reach me. _
> 
> _ John _

Don’t try to reach me.

A simple request.

Understandable.

Fair. 

Nothing simple about it.

Sherlock had had no choice but to respect it. He’d already destroyed John one time too many. There are only so many times a man can get his feet under him again, no matter how brave, no matter how strong, no matter how stubborn, and John had picked himself up more times than Sherlock cares to think about. 

So yes, he had respected it. But there had been many a sleepless night after that. There had been dozens, hundreds, of cases since then. There had been morphine, cocaine, even a brief flirtation with crack before his brother had stepped in. More cases again. There hadn’t been life after John, not really, but there had been a series of days that managed to fill themselves, to pass.

There had been a cycle of days.

Now there is this day.

Full circle.

Back to the beginning.

Maybe.

Maybe…

_________________________________________

The silence behind him is unexpectedly galling.

John crosses his arms across his chest and stares down at the boats cutting gashes in the lazy surface of the Thames, boats that get smaller and smaller the higher they rise.

“You do this on purpose, then? You following me?”

“No.”

Sherlock sounds tired, John thinks.

“Right.”

He tries to be angry. He is. He’s fucking furious. But he’s missed that voice, and he didn’t even realise how much until now. His name from those lips, and everything coiled tight and desperate inside of him, everything holding him together just seemed to let go; an almost physical snap, He can feel it in his chest, feel it break, unspool, spill over, flood him with—something—something… 

His brain wakes up.

He shouldn’t be surprised, he supposes. Sherlock has always been his drug.

And Christ but doesn’t he want to turn around and look, see if all these months, days, hours, minutes, seconds have changed that face. 

It had started even before they had parted, soft wrinkles at the corners of Sherlock’s eyes, bags beneath them in the mornings, a slight thinning and receding of those boyish curls, a grey hair here or there, that John had noticed but never mentioned. It had been comforting, somehow, to see the evidence of Sherlock’s humanity.

It made something ache in John. Those small chinks in the armour, signs of vulnerability, they made him want to care.

But then, that is still his weakness, it seems—after all this time, after everything.

He wants to care.

He does.

“John…”

“What?”

_________________________________________

When John turns, finally ( _ finally _ ), Sherlock is struck by how little he has changed. Oh, there is the beard, of course, and the bags under his eyes seem more pronounced, but his eyes are still the colour of a stormy sea at dusk, still angry and sad. His mouth is still a straight line. His knuckles are still white, where he clenches hard, holding back, holding on.

The furrow between his brow deepens as he takes Sherlock in. Sherlock lets him look, and sees two years (or is it two decades? A lifetime?) of pain play across his face in a matter of seconds.

“Christ.” It’s a whisper. More benediction than profanity, Sherlock thinks.

“Hello.”

John takes a deep breath, slowly, holds it, lets it out again. “Hi.”

And then words fail them both.

John leans back against the railing behind him, grips onto it like he needs it just to keep standing. “You okay?”

Sherlock shrugs.

“Yeah.” John says it like he knows, understands. By the look of him, he does. He nods, and looks over and up through the glass at the pod ahead of them. And then there is the silence again. Too much. Too much.

They’ve reached the quarter point of their ascent. The clock is ticking.

“Are  _ you _ okay?”

John’s eyes snap back to his, search him for a moment.

“No.”

Sherlock is surprised at the truth, the unyielding honesty of his answer. John has always danced around personal questions. He’s never been one to honestly address his ability to cope head on. That might require accepting vulnerability, which has never been an option, much as he likes to accuse Sherlock for the very same lack. 

“Oh.” Because Sherlock doesn’t know what more to say.

John sniffs, and stares down at the floor. “You still doing the cases, then? Haven’t seen anything on the news.”

“Yes.”

“Oh yeah? Well… Good. That’s good.”

“And you?”

“Mm?” John finally looks away from his shoes.

“Are you still at the surgery?”

“Yeah.”

“Ahh.” Sherlock wonders if he might be permitted… “And Rosie?”

He can’t read the look on John’s face. 

“She’s with my sister.”

“Oh.”

“Most of the time, actually.”

“Oh.” 

“Harry’s been sober for awhile now. Got remarried. Wife’s a bit older. Stable. She’s good with her. They both are.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, maybe you can stop saying that, now.”

“Oh. Yes. Yes, sorry.”

He can’t be sure, but Sherlock thinks he sees the corner of John’s mouth twitch upward in the ghost of a smile. It only lasts the breath of a second, and then it’s gone, replaced with a look Sherlock likes less.

“I know. I know what you’re thinking, but trust me, this is me doing better by her than I would have been if I was still trying to… This is better.”

“I see.”

John huffs and stares back down at the floor. “Doubt it.”

_________________________________________

Sherlock looks like shit.

The transformation had taken John totally off guard, got him talking when he hadn’t planned to say a word. 

He’s standing here answering questions that are very much off-limits without a second thought. He needs to shut up, but Christ…

Sherlock has gone quiet. He’s picking at a non-existent loose thread at the knee of his trousers. The knuckles on his long fingers stand out like knots. His cheekbones, always prominent jut even more sharp and defined, his signature tight shirts are one step away from being too large.

John wants to take him home and feed him up.

He pushes down the urge violently. 

No. 

He can’t keep doing this. 

It’s a bad habit.

His choice to shut Sherlock out of his life entirely may have been a bit rash, but he doesn’t regret it, not really. What they had, whatever it was they had, was not sustainable. John destroys everything he touches, and Sherlock attracts danger like honey attracts bees. John didn’t need the constant reminder that everything good they’d had could only, ever, be transient and fleeting. 

They had been slowly destroying one another for years. John had once thought that was his fault, after Mary died it had been easier to see it as Sherlock’s, but it’s been long enough now, that he thinks he can see it as it is—both of their faults, and neither. It is what it is.

“When did you last eat?”

He hadn’t planned on asking.

Sherlock looks as surprised as John feels.

“I—this morning, I think. Or maybe it was yesterday.”

“You look like shit.”

Sherlock blinks, and then he grins. Damn him, grins.

John doesn’t take the bait. “I’m serious.”

“I’m fine.”

“Nope.”

“Well then, what do you prescribe, doctor?”

There’s a tone to it. John bites back a quirk of confusion. 

_ Is—is he flirting? _

“You should eat. And maybe—get off whatever it is you’re on.”

Sherlock looks a touch scandalised at that. “I’m clean.”

“Yeah? For how long?”

“Five months.”

John isn’t sure if he believes it.

_________________________________________

Sherlock has John’s full attention now, and it’s heady. After all this time they slip back into their old roles as though no time has passed at all.

But then again, time  _ has _ passed, and a lifetime’s worth of pain, betrayal, and loss. 

They shouldn’t. They can’t go back to the way things were.

As they crest the top of the wheel’s circuit, John stares upward, through the glass, toward the stars barely visible through the lights and haze of the city. His eyes slide shut.

“I’ll eat.”

John huffs softly, but his eyes remain closed.

“I promise.”

John sighs and looks back over at him. He looks tired, Sherlock thinks.

“Do what you want. It’s nothing to me.”

Ahh.

Sherlock stares down at the pack of cigarettes in his hand and stuffs them back into his pocket. He gets to his feet, and walks over to where he had stood when he first got on. He stares out over the city, a blanket of lights spread out before them, the dark ribbon of the Thames, cutting through it all.

“When we reach the bottom, do you think you might want to…?” And then he can’t finish.

“Not the best idea, don’t you think?”

Sherlock doesn’t know what he thinks. Right now all there is is feeling. A deep ache, and the fluttering prickle of panic at the thought that once the ride ends, John could walk away again, this time forever.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I would like to see you again.”

John doesn’t say anything for the longest time. Sherlock wonders if he’s simply decided to ignore him, if they’ll ride the last fifteen minutes like this, in tense, painful silence.

He hears John shift behind him. “Look at me.”

Sherlock does. He lets John’s eyes bore into him until he feels like he wants to shed his own pathetic skin and skitter away into dark, cool places.

“I can’t look after you. I can’t be your carer. You get it? I can’t even take care of my own fucking daughter. I can’t even take care of myself, and I certainly can’t deal with a sociopath and an addict on top of that.”

It smarts. Sherlock can’t decide if this is just John’s fumbling attempts at drawing boundaries, or if he’s truly always been this resentful, and never said. It smarts, and Sherlock is suddenly angry.

“Yes, well no one asked you to!” he snaps.

John blinks. Sniffs. His hand clenches into a fist at his side, and Sherlock wonders if he’s fighting the urge to lash out. It would be something, at least—a blow, the sting, the ache of it, the drawing of blood. It would be something. Intimate. It would be better than this.

“Just look at yourself, Sherlock, for Christ’s sake. Really look!” John waves a hand in his general direction. 

“Yes, and when was the last time you really looked at yourself?!”

John sways a little, like Sherlock’s words have made physical contact. He looks hurt for the briefest of moments, and then his eyes go cold. “Last week in therapy. On Monday when my sister asked to take my daughter to Paris for the holidays, and I knew why. This morning when I stood for fifteen minutes in front of my kitchen cabinet staring at a half-empty bottle of scotch. Tonight when—when I could still feel the ghosts trying to… And I…”

John’s face does something strange, and Sherlock wonders if he’s going to break. But then he stands a little taller, and carries on. “Every minute of every fucking day since I was old enough to remember I’ve had to really look at myself, and I’ve had to accept that I’m never going to measure up—ever! But at least I fucking try!”

And it all suddenly becomes clear, what it is that John is really angry about, has maybe always been really angry about. It’s not Sherlock’s weaknesses, it’s the fact that Sherlock doesn’t seem to care about living up to anyone else’s standard but his own.

“I never asked you to measure up, the whole concept is ludicrous.”

“Oh. Oh right.” John laughs bitterly. “Like you didn’t have me in a box from the very start. Sweet, stupid little John, will follow at my heels like a faithful dog, dim but loyal, at least he…”

“John, when we met you were an invalided soldier and surgeon, who had just lost his ability to both serve his country and pursue his vocation of choice. You were depressed, on the brink, were closet drinking, and serial dating to try and ignore things you would rather not think about, and I never judged. I never cared about any of it. I—I simply cared. I cared to have you in my life. And not because I saw you as some sort of useful tool, or ignorant helpmate, or charity case, but because for some reason I still don’t understand, you—you made me want to try. You gave me a reason to keep on going. You saved me, John, and I wanted you—in my life. I still do.”

_______________________________________

John just stares, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Words.

Fucking words.

Words Sherlock could have said at any bloody point in all the years they knew one another, and yet…

“Well, it’s a little late now.”

Sherlock’s brow forms a small wrinkle of confusion, a thing that John had always secretly found endearing to the point of distraction. Now it just makes him angry.

“Is it?”

John huffs in disbelief. “I’m a borderline-alcoholic, greying widower with an almost three year old child, and you’re a relapsed addict, so what do you think?”

“I don’t understand?”

John just shakes his head, turns away, stares back out over the city and wonders why the corners of his eyes are suddenly biting. “Just… Stop talking.” He looks down at his watch. “We have less than ten minutes left in this bloody thing, and then we can both go our separate ways and forget this ever happened.

“Oh.” It’s small and hushed, but Sherlock does go quiet then, and John is grateful. It’s good. He can move on from this. Forget about it in a day or two, forget how it feels to be a few meters away from Sherlock Holmes, to feel that prickle in the air, that prickle that moves in an echo over his skin—to just be with him, the energy, the scent of him in the air; expensive cologne and cigarette smoke, a tinge of the chemical, and something else, something homey (greasy chips?). John’s stomach growls loudly and he silently curses it.

“Have dinner with me.”

Sherlock’s voice sounds loud after the moments of silence. There is a confidence to his request that John hasn’t anticipated. It’s an olive branch, an offering of a second chance, but there’s something of an order to it too. John feels it register in his body, just as it always used to do. It pools hot and insistent in his abdomen, spreads.

_ Shit. _

__________________________________

“No.”

“John.”

“No!”

John swings around and his eyes are…

Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath, holds John’s gaze—furious, red-rimmed, lost.

“It’s just dinner,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Nope.” John shakes his head. “It’s never ‘just dinner’ with you .”

This is news.

“Isn’t it?”

“Don’t.”

Sherlock is starting to lose patience. John is a conundrum. He always has been. It was part of the initial draw, if Sherlock is honest with himself. All those layers to peel back, years and years of little puzzles to unwind. Sherlock wants this. He wants it more than he has ever wanted anything, but he doesn’t want to feel as though he’s forcing the issue.

“The offer is on the table. When we reach the ground, I’m going to walk to Angelo’s. Come with me or not. It’s up to you.”

John doesn’t say anything. 

They ride the last five minutes in absolute silence.

When they reach the ground Sherlock debarks first, walks at a moderate pace down the Queen’s Walk until the aquarium looms on his left. He stops, lights a cigarette, takes a deep drag, holds it, lets it out again.

John walks past him, keeps on going, never once looking back.

Ah.

Sherlock takes another drag, and forces himself to look at the building before him. He had been arrogant, rash, too sure, too full of the heady rush of his own sense of brilliance. He hadn’t pulled the trigger that killed Mary Watson, but he had killed her, all the same. 

But then—she had killed him too…

Still. He likely deserves this. And he tried. At least he tried.

______________________________________

John gets just past the aquarium ticketing booth, and stops. He looks over at the entrance. Closed for the night ( _ just like that night _ ). He looks over his shoulder at Sherlock still standing below the sign, smoking a cigarette and staring up at the great white columns looming and dimly lit in the winter darkness.

He sighs.

Sherlock doesn’t look over when John slides up beside him. “It wasn’t your fault.” Because it wasn’t, and he needs him to know. “She—she was just like that—did whatever she wanted no matter how it affected anyone else, you know that.”

“Yes.” Sherlock takes another drag from his cigarette, and then lets it waft slowly into the cool night air. “But I should have been less reckless.”

“I used to think you two were fucking, you know.” 

Sherlock's attention snaps to at the confession, and John feels his cheeks heat because he has no idea why he’s just admitted to it. 

Sherlock’s face does a myriad of things John can’t interpret, but ends on something that looks slightly bemused. “ _ Me _ —and  _ Mary _ ?”

“Yeah.” John looks away, because he has to, because he’s a fool, an idiot, an idiot who doesn’t even know why he’s standing here now, making unnecessary confessions, when he could have just simply walked away. Walked away and never looked back.

John shrugs, and stuffs his hands in his pockets, stares down at his feet. “Dunno. You both just seemed to—get on, get on like—like maybe you didn’t need me, resented me being around.”

“No.”

Sherlock’s tone is low and careful, like he’s afraid that John might come undone, and maybe he will. Maybe he is, has been, for ages. He doesn’t know anything anymore, only that for the first time in two years he feels like he can breathe.

“John…” Softer still.

And so John looks, both hates and craves whatever it is he sees glowing in Sherlock’s eyes.

“I’ve never resented your presence. Your absence? Yes. Many times. But never your presence.”

John aches. Heart, soul, blood and bone.

“Have dinner with me,” Sherlock insists in a whisper that is barely audible beneath the bustle of the city around them.

John looks up at the Aquarium looming above them. The wind picks up a bit. It’s not unbearably cold, but in another hour it will start to get unpleasant, and it will take them nearly that long to walk back to Baker Street, and then another block to Angelo’s. He closes his eyes, listens to the ever thinning crowds swirl around them, the hum of traffic on Westminster Bridge.

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, drops away. He hears Sherlock snuff out his cigarette, slip away behind him.

He turns and follows.

__________________________

They double back and cross over the Thames on the Jubilee bridge, head down Northumberland Avenue. John is quiet, and walks a step or two behind even though the pace Sherlock has set is a leisurely one. 

It feels a little like the old days, like this, moving through the city at night, John at his heel. Sherlock can feel something start to clear, fall away. 

There is a tang to the night air, crisp and humid. Perhaps it will snow. It’s just cold enough to.

Sherlock slows a little more, lets John catch up to him. He casts a sidelong glance in his direction. John looks straight ahead, still walking with that clipped, military precision and determination that always used to do strange and inconvenient things to Sherlock when they were out beating the pavement on cases. 

It’s armour. John looks confident, sure. He looks like someone not to be crossed. It’s incredibly appealing. Sherlock had inwardly acknowledged that years ago. But it  _ is  _ a mask. What it really is is hyper-vigilance, a tight, coiled, deeply anxious and constant state of readiness. It made John an incredibly effective bodyguard, but it must be exhausting in the day-to-day.

“Where are you living now?” Sherlock thinks a little distraction is in order.

“Same flat, as if you didn’t know that.”

Sherlock didn’t know that. He’d been very strict with himself. No news of John whatsoever. His brother had promised to let him know if anything truly dire had ever happened, but beyond that Sherlock had cut John out, excised him with a ferocity and determination that had almost killed him.

“You’d asked that I not contact you. I felt it best to cut ties altogether. So no, I didn’t know.”

John doesn’t say anything, but some of the tension in his shoulders appears to have let go. After a moment he stuffs his hands in his pockets, and sniffs in the cold night air. “Not like you, really.”

“What isn’t?”

“Respecting boundaries.”

And he’s right Sherlock thinks. It never has been a strength. His own boundaries differ so much from others that he often forgets. When another human being becomes an obsession those lines blur even further. But , John matters. John matters to him, in all the ways a person can, and even just knowing that John was alive, and out there in the world somewhere… Well, that had been motivation to learn, to try.

“Yes, well, I—I’ve been working on that.”

John glances over at him. He looks a bit confused, Sherlock thinks. Fair. They don’t do this. They’ve never really done this—honesty, communication, self-reflection—and perhaps they were poorer for it. It is infuriatingly difficult to formulate an approach without proper data, and really that is all relationships are, a series of actions and choices, usually born of feeling, but hopefully also built on information, experimentation, learning from failures, building on successes. He and John had always chosen to dance around one another, instead. Rarely if ever an honest or helpful interaction.

Sherlock had decided years ago that if he was ever given a second chance, that those habits could not continue.

“Oh yeah?” John sounds genuinely curious, there is none of the bitter disbelief Sherlock had expected.

“Yes.”

“Therapy, or…?”

“Self-reflection. Daily practice.”

“Right.”

“I believe Mrs Hudson was a touch worried by my improved manners in the beginning. She asked me if I was dying.”

John barks out a laugh that seems to surprise him. 

Sherlock chuckles softly along with him. “Though I do think she’s adapted since then, and is perhaps better off, as a result.”

“We were pretty awful to her sometimes, weren’t we.”

“Quite.”

John smiles, a real smile that travels all the way to his eyes and makes him instantly look years younger.

Sherlock smiles back.

John stares back down the street. “So—what about the drugs. How’d that fit into all this self-reflection?” 

And there it is, the tension returning to John’s body.

“It wasn’t always easy, but I didn’t do it at the flat.”

John huffs, an exasperated and (yes, there it is) bitter thing.

“I would apologise, but it didn’t affect you, and apologies are nothing more than worthless words without real change. As I said, I have been clean for five months.”

“Five months out of two years. Right. Nice.”

“It took me some time to find my feet after… I won’t apologise for that either.”

“Right. ‘Course not.”

Sherlock stops talking. He doesn’t want to argue. It’s pointless.

After a few minutes of silently following at Sherlock’s heel, John picks up his pace and falls into step beside him again. “Daily practice, you said. So, umm… There anyone other than Mrs. Hudson you’ve been practicing on?”

“Clients, of course. Lestrade. To a lesser extent the rest of his people.” Sherlock looks over at John. His eyes are downcast, and his cheeks are pink, possibly from something more than the cold. Oh.

“Ahh… You’re asking if I’ve replaced you.”

John looks back down the street ahead of them again and shrugs.

“No. There’s no one else.”

“Yeah, okay.”

And now Sherlock is curious ( _ worried? _ ) “And you?”

John sucks in a breath of brisk night air, and lets it out again in a cloud. “Tried one of those dating apps a few months back. Met up with a couple of people once or twice. Wasn’t for me.”

“Ah.”

“Hard when you have a kid.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, well—women my age don’t really want to start all over again with a toddler, and the…” John seems to catch himself, swallows back whatever it was he was going to say. “Just didn’t work out.”

“I see.”

John’s shoulders lift and roll. He pinches at the bridge of his nose.

“Headache?”

“I’m fine.”

But he’s not, that’s clear. Sherlock tries not to think about what it means.

John’s eyes scan the street ahead and on either side of them. Every muscle in his body is coiled tight. Sherlock wants to stop there, in the middle of the street, and pull him close, give him the warmth and cadence to breathe again. It’s a ridiculous craving. John would bolt like a feral dog if Sherlock so much as tried it, he knows that at least (boundaries). But, John is falling fast. He’s not okay.

They’ve just passed Trafalgar Square, pubs and takeaway places are common. “If you’re hungry, we could stop along here to eat?” Sherlock suggests.

But John shakes his head. “Angelo’s sounds nice. Let’s just go there.”

“Are you cold?”

The question, the small courtesy of it seems to catch John unawares. Sherlock can’t read what he sees in John’s eyes when they briefly catch Sherlock’s, but he almost looks confused.

“I’m okay.”

He’s wearing a canvas coat over a button down shirt and sleeveless sweater, and he actually has the top two buttons of his shirt undone. Sherlock pulls off the scarf he’s wearing, and hands it over.

“Here.”

“Sherlock, I really don’t need…”

“Wear it.”

And John does. Wordlessly, he wraps it around his neck, tucks the ends inside his coat. Sherlock buttons his own coat up around his neck and feels a little less anxious.

“Better?”

“Mm.”

“Good.”

_____________________________

It smells like Sherlock, the scarf, and John has to fight the urge to lift it to his nose and breathe deeply. He’s trying to decide if the offer (order?) was truly courtesy, or if Sherlock knew, somehow fucking knew, that this simple length of cloth would have such an effect on him. Every cell in John’s body is lighting up, and if… Well he’s not dressed properly to hide  _ that _ .

John wants to pretend that he’s confused by the strength of his response, but he’s not. He’s always had this response to Sherlock, had just found ways to explain it away to himself, to sublimate, to redirect, and the last two years have been—well, not a revelation, per se, but at least helpful.

It was true, there had been a brief foray into the world of dating apps. There had been women, but there had also been, for the first time in his life, one or two men. The women were nice enough, but not interested once they found out he had an infant daughter. The blokes had been… Well, no, it hadn’t been the blokes that were the problem, really. At least one had been surprisingly open about Rosie, but John had… Well, he’d bollocksed the whole thing up, probably. He’d panicked maybe.

He’s always flirted with men, that’s something he’s started to accept just this year, with Ella’s help. A slow, strange process he tries not to think about too much. He’s always flirted, but when he gets a favourable response, well—that’s a whole different ball of wax. And they haven’t even tried to start untangling that yet.

But with Sherlock… Well, it’s Sherlock. Sherlock’s always been the exception to every rule, and John had flirted like some sort of hormone-addled adolescent the first 48 hours of their acquaintance, and had been shot down—understandably, deservedly— but it hadn’t changed the electric charge that had always run just beneath the surface of what they had, an anticipation, a desire that had probably contributed more to John’s addiction to the man beside him than he cares to admit. He used to think it was just the adrenaline hit that Sherlock’s lifestyle provided, but now—now he’s not so sure.

He tries to not think about it. He had been shot down, and there have been women in Sherlock’s life since then, Irene Adler, Janine Hawkins. Sherlock may not do that, may not even be interested in men, or interested in anything. John doesn’t trust his ability to gauge those sorts of things, and, he suddenly realises, he doesn’t want to make another huge mistake, because he wants this second chance.

Christ.

Shit.

He wants this!

He wants it, whatever it might turn out to be. He wants the companionship. He wants the cases. He wants the homey-ness of 221b. He wants the sound of Mrs. Hudson puttering about a floor below. He wants the soft clink of pipets against glass in the kitchen. He wants Sherlock’s hums of concentration and sudden ejaculations of excitement when he hones in on the solution to a particularly sticky puzzle. He wants…

He wants.

He reaches down and adjusts the scarf, pulls it up over his mouth just below his nose, feels the scent of it race through him like lightning through steel. He’ll be in a bad way soon, probably. He doesn’t care. 

He wants to curse Sherlock for his courtesy, for the way it’s turned John into a slavering fool, just like that, but he’s not angry, he realises. He’s not. In some strange way, he’s relieved. It feels good to want like this again, even if it means he’s probably going to have to have a quick wank in the loo at the restaurant when they get there. He had begun to wonder if he even still could, thought that maybe age and lack had started to take their toll and he would never feel things like that again. Old before his time.

He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him. He’s being read. He doesn’t mind that either, he realises. Let Sherlock figure it out. Let him see. Let him decide.

“Perhaps I should hail a cab.”

“If you want.”

Sherlock slows, walks over to the kerb, and lifts a hand. They’re a good way down Regency Street now. It will be less than fifteen minutes to the restaurant. Fifteen minutes in the back of a cab with Sherlock’s arm pressed up against his. Sherlock’s heat, his scent, his—everything, everywhere.

Yeah, maybe not such a great idea.

“You know what…”

But Sherlock’s miraculous ability to instantly hail a cab anywhere in London doesn’t seem to have changed and one is already pulling up in front of them.

Too late.

John gets in, folds his hands in his lap, something that will probably just draw Sherlock’s attention to the issue, but—oh well.

Sherlock gives the cabbie directions and then settles back in the seat beside John.

He smells incredible.

John wants to kiss him (maybe), wants to touch at least, to somehow crawl into the very core of the cloud of Sherlock that hangs around him. Wants to crawl under it. Maybe wants to sleep. Sleep for years. 

“I think it might snow.” Sherlock leans over and peers out the window, up at the overcast sky, glowing heavy and orange beneath the London lights.

“Yeah, maybe. Been a while since we’ve had snow.”

“Yes.” He flops back against the seat, and John feels rather than sees Sherlock’s eyes drop to John’s lap and quickly flit away again.

And fuck if that doesn’t make the situation worse.

John should be embarrassed. He hasn’t seen Sherlock in two years. This isn’t the response he should be having. It isn’t the response he expected. Like Sherlock, he had worked hard to drive all thought of what they were, what they had been from his mind. He had fought tooth and nail to not think about Sherlock at all. He had been mostly successful.

Occasionally he had wondered what it would be like if he were to meet Sherlock unexpectedly in the street. London is a big city, but Sherlock has always seemed to be omnipresent. It was a possibility. It could have happened. There had been a month or two where John had gone over and over this prospect in his head, spooling out scenarios of what it might be like before he went to sleep. 

Sometimes he just ignored Sherlock. Other times he hit him—hard. One time he had ended up overwhelmed with emotion. But never once had he anticipated ( _ allowed himself to imagine? _ ) this longing, this hunger.

“Would you like to see the flat?”

John thinks Sherlock sounds slightly nervous, but he’s likely just imagining it.

“Could. After dinner. Might be nice to see Mrs. Hudson again.”

“Ah. Yes. Well, she’s away at her sister’s until Thursday, I’m afraid.”

“Oh.”

“Mm.”

“We’ll see. Let’s eat first.”

“Alright.”

When they finally reach the restaurant there is a table already waiting for them, the same table they had sat at all those years ago on their first case together, right by the window, overlooking the street. John slides into his seat, grateful for the tablecloth that drapes down and hides the evidence of how needy he is. 

He wonders how Sherlock managed this small miracle. Likely he texted ahead when they were back at The Eye, but it’s terribly Sherlock, John thinks, that strange sort of power he has that seems to make everything just effortlessly, almost magically fall into place.

A candle is brought. Wine is brought, and Sherlock looks to John to see if he wants it. John does, but he wants to be sure not to over indulge, he’s barely holding onto control, as it is, and he doesn’t want to do or say anything he might regret later. He waves it away.

“Dr. Watson!”

Angelo.

A meaty hand clamps down on John’s shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze.

“Sherlock, you didn’t tell me you were bringing Dr. Watson with you.”

Sherlock smiles. “It was rather impromptu.”

“Ahh! The best sort of encounter, yes?”

“So it seems.”

“Dinner is on me. Anything you want. Just like old times, eh!” He gives John’s shoulder another squeeze.

“It’s not, though, is it?” John mutters as Angelo heads off to find their waiter.

Sherlock’s brow knits. “Mm?”

“Just like old times.”

“No. I imagine not.”

“Not sure I’d want it to be.”

“Nor would I.” Sherlock’s eyes hold his, and John doesn’t look away. There is that old familiar intensity to it, that feeling of being flayed alive. It’s heady and arousing, and John lets it happen. 

Sherlock’s gaze travels over his face before drifting to John’s mouth, and then back up again. He licks his lips and then looks hurriedly away, down at his menu.

“Should we share something?”

“If you want.” John’s voice sounds rough and thirsty even to his own ears.

___________________________

But it certainly feels full circle, Sherlock thinks. The way John is looking at him. The—the issue that Sherlock has been polite enough not to mention, the way John’s voice, breathless and rough, drags over Sherlock’s skin like ocean waves caressing the sandy shore. John wanting. John almost flirting, and Sherlock…

Terrified.

No.

Not really. Not this time. 

But nervous, certainly. There is so much more at risk tonight than there ever was all those years ago, on their first case.

It had both surprised him and not, the swiftness with which John warmed up to him, the speed with which that warmth flickered into a raging flame. If he were to play his cards right, he could have whatever he desired tonight, he’s more than certain of that. But would it be wise? Would such momentary, passionate surrender end in either of them getting what they really want?

Sherlock doubts it.

It doesn’t mean he doesn’t want. It doesn’t mean he isn’t tempted. 

He’s close enough that he could stretch out a leg and press his foot against John’s. 

He considers it.

It would provide data…

He does it. He sees the wave of recognition move through John’s body. John sits a little straighter, shifts in his seat. “Think I’m going to get the puttanesca. You want to share that?”

“Yes.”

“Could get it family style. There would be leftovers for you, then.”

“Alright.”

He can’t take his eyes off of the way John’s skin flushes behind his ears and high on his cheeks, the way he keeps licking his lips, the way, the very marked way, that John refuses to look at him.

“John.”

“Yeah.” John keeps his eyes trained on the menu.

“John.”

He finally looks up, and Sherlock catches that glance, holds it, refuses to let it go.

John is hungry. He’s starving. And Sherlock has always known this in a way, yes, but it’s never been so visible as it is now. It almost seems indecent for a public place, the way John’s mouth parts, the way his tongue slides over his lower lip before disappearing again, his breath going shallow, his pupils blown wide and dark. Sherlock thinks that maybe he could take him to the loo in the back, have him right here in this restaurant in the middle of the bustling dinner hour.

“Though, perhaps we shouldn’t eat too much. I’ve been abstaining, and might feel like dessert afterwards.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm.”

John shifts in his seat again. “Maybe just entree size, then.”

“Yes.”

Their waiter appears, and Sherlock lets John order, enjoys the way John pulls himself together, pretends like he isn’t sitting there, fully hard, dreaming of things he wouldn’t even have considered a few hours prior.

When the waiter is gone again, John’s foot slides along the side of Sherlock’s under the table, and Sherlock just barely suppresses a smile. It’s flattering. He hasn’t felt this alive in years, he realises. He feels young and a bit stupid and reckless. They should be careful, yes they should. But this is only flirtation. This is relatively safe. He decides to let himself have it. After they leave the restaurant…? Well, they can deal with that when it comes.

“So,” John starts, clearing his throat, trying to chase away the shackle of want that roughs up the edges of his voice. “Any interesting cases?”

“Mm. A few. I take more private cases these days. Lestrade hasn’t had enough to keep me busy. More domestics than I would care for, but there was a rather fascinating murder a couple of months ago.”

He sees John perk up. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes.”

And then Sherlock sets to telling the tale, and John’s eyes light up, and his attention piques, full and unwavering. He doesn’t tell it with as much flourish as John would have in recalling it, but it’s enough to hold John, and that’s all that matters. 

Their food comes, and they fall into easy conversation after that, the fires that had been burning between them earlier dying down to a softly glowing ember, and by the time their shared plate is clean, and dessert and coffee have been brought and enjoyed, Sherlock feels enough of himself again, to risk asking if John would like to go back to the flat.

The truth is he’s afraid to see John go. He’s afraid that John will walk away from this night, go back to his flat, and convince himself, afresh, that they are better off apart. 

“I think they close, soon.” Sherlock glances around the emptying restaurant, and at the waiters casting them sidelong glances that telegraph an anxious desire to see them leave.

“Oh. Yeah. Right.” John looks down at his watch. “Jesus, it’s almost ten o’clock.”

“Yes, I believe we lost track of the time. Would you like to come back to the flat for a nightcap?” Sherlock thinks it’s best to be direct. He doesn’t want any mistakes or misunderstandings this time.

He sees John waver. He opens his mouth like he’s going to refuse, but then closes it again. Thinks. Really and truly considers.

Sherlock feels hope.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s more than just a cup of tea, or a glass of wine that Sherlock is asking about. John knows it. Sherlock knows John knows it.

And he almost refused, on instinct, an old habit.

He almost did.

But then he remembered how he had felt leaving his flat earlier, that desperation to get out, to get away from the hollow, echoing emptiness. And not just the flat. He had been running from himself, too, from his whole life and all his decisions up to that point. He had been looking for something on the streets of London.

And then there had a been a voice…

_ ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ _

And John had made another decision. An offer of dinner was made. Yet another decision. A scarf was offered. A foot was pressed against his. Stories were shared. Decision, after decision, after decision, all of them drawing him closer.

Why walk away now?

“Yeah. Could do. Might be nice. Not often I get a night out to myself these days.”

Sherlock nods. Eyes locked on John’s again. “Come on then.”

The streets are quieter. It is just starting to snow.

They don’t say anything.

They walk silently, side-by-side, the whisper of snow muting out the sounds of the city around them. Their hands brush against one another from time-to-time. Neither of them pulls away.

When they reach the flat, Sherlock unlocks the front door, steps inside first. It’s dark. He hasn’t left a single light on. John steps into a blanket of velvet black and is instantly surrounded by the scents of home.

It’s suddenly and unexpectedly difficult to breathe. His eyes burn. There is the familiar and infuriating urge to bolt. And he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t, but his bloody brain and his bloody body don’t seem to have got the memo.

A small lamp on the hall table clicks on. 

Sherlock takes one look at John and his eyes widen in recognition.

“We could walk a little more.”

“No. I’m fine. I’m fine.”

He’s not. They both know it, but to his credit, Sherlock lets John have this, lets him keep his dignity. John is more grateful than he could ever express.

“Mrs. Hudson left biscuits in her flat. I’ll go get them. Wait here, or go up, whichever you prefer.”

John suspects there aren’t any biscuits. This is Sherlock giving him space to sort himself out.

And he could turn around. He could leave. He could. But he doesn’t. 

He goes up.

There is a lamp on in 221b.

It casts a golden glow over Sherlock’s chair, a chair that looks a little more worn, but it still essentially just as John remembers it.

John’s chair is gone.

It hurts.

It’s ridiculous. He has no right to be upset. He’d cut Sherlock off, cast him out, and Sherlock had moved on. It’s only logical that he would remove the superfluous piece of furniture. He’s done it before.

John goes and stands where his chair once was, stares down at Sherlock’s empty one. He thinks of all the times he stood in almost this exact place, looking down at Sherlock, and—wanted.

“Couldn’t find them.” Sherlock announces as he tops the stairs and steps into the lounge. He stops at the door, giving John space, and John hates it suddenly, wishes that Sherlock would come and sit, pull up a chair from the kitchen for John, if he must. Anything, anything to make it feel like it once did. Anything to make it feel like maybe, just maybe there is room for it to be that way again.

“My chair?”

John expects a quip, something typically Sherlock, brushing it off like John is being overly sensitive and stupid. He doesn’t at all expect what he gets.

“I moved it. It was easier. I considered having it taken out, but I… I didn’t in the end.”

“Where is it?”

“In my bedroom.”

The confession sparks over John’s skin like fire. “Your bedroom?”

“Yes.” And it’s clear from his tone that Sherlock is finished. There won’t be any further explanations. 

Sherlock is shrugging out of his coat. He tosses it on the sofa, and then removes his suit jacket, too, unbuttons his cuffs and rolls up his sleeves. His hands look over-large in contrast to the bony contours of his wrists. John thinks he could easily wrap his thumb and middle finger around those wrists and have them meet in the middle.

Sherlock is as thin as the night they met, if not thinner. 

John’s grateful that he managed to persuade him to eat earlier.

He looks like he could use a decent night’s sleep too—or two, or three. 

John really shouldn’t stay, but… “You really do look like shit.”

Sherlock frowns, and then rolls his eyes, goes into the kitchen and starts to fill the tea kettle at the sink. “One really can’t hear that enough.”

“I’m serious, Sherlock.” John goes and stands at the threshold. “You’re not in your thirties anymore. You need to take care of yourself. You’re not going to bounce back the way you used to.

“I’m quite fit, I assure you.”

_ ‘Prove it.’ _ John wants to say, and doesn’t.

“How’s Mrs. Hudson?” John changes the subject in an attempt to reign himself in.

“She’s well. She’s a little slower on the stairs this last year, but it’s to be expected.”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock clicks the kettle on, begins to spoon tea into a nearby pot that John doesn’t recognise. 

“You look better than I would have expected.”

John blinks, not sure what to do with the statement. Not sure if he should be flattered or insulted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock glances up, takes one look at his face, and the corners of his mouth quirk up in exasperation. “Don’t be like that. It was meant as a compliment.”

John reaches up and scratches at his beard, suddenly self conscious. The little changes to his personal grooming and his mode of dress had evolved naturally over the months and years, but now that he’s back at Baker Street, he is suddenly conscious of how strange it all is, how the flat seems the same as ever, but how he and Sherlock have both changed so much.

He takes his hat off, and runs a hand through his hair. “Why better than you expected?”

“I made a miscalculation.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I thought you might have spent the last two years in a worse place than you did, evidently.”

“You thought I would be, what? Depressed?”

Sherlock just shakes his head. He won’t look up. 

He’s disappointed, John realises. He thinks it means that John didn’t…

“I got used to you being dead—long before this. It was easier the second time. Had practice.”

“Mm. Yes. And of course this time it was your choice.” Sherlock shuts off the kettle and fills the pot.

“Sherlock.”

“Mm?”

John walks into the room, tosses his hat onto the table, pulls out a chair, and sits. He stares at Sherlock’s back, at his muscles and scapulae flexing beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. “I did miss you.”

Sherlock stops moving. John can’t read the tension he sees in those shoulders, the twitch he sees at the hinge of Sherlock’s jaw.

“Did you?”

“Yes. Sometimes. It was worse when I’d see something on the news that I thought you could solve in a second. Or sometimes walking through certain parts of the city. Had to stop getting Thai takeaway for a while. It was the worst at night. Not every night, mind, but some.”

Sherlock’s shoulders rise and fall. He turns. “Do you still have the nightmares?”

“Sometimes. Yeah.”

Sherlock nods, stares down at his feet. “For what it’s worth… I missed you too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Well—good.”

Sherlock looks up. His eyes look full. He had hurt him, John realises. He’d hurt him badly, and one would think there would be a little comfort in that—the karma. Sherlock finally understanding what it feels like to be abandoned, rejected, left out. But there isn’t any of the expected satisfaction. Instead John just aches with all they’ve lost. He wonders if this is how Sherlock felt after he came back from the dead, after he saw what his absence had done.

John is tired of hurting, of hurting Sherlock.

Something has to change.

He gets up, paces out into the lounge, walks around and takes it all in. He stops in front of the window and pushes the heavy curtain back with one finger. It’s snowing properly now, starting to collect on the unpaved areas. If the temperature drops any further there will be ice in a few hours. There may even be an inch or so of snow. Nothing an experienced cabbie couldn’t handle, but… It’s an opportunity.

“Snowing pretty hard out there, now.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. Listen, you mind if I spend the night?”

____________________________

Sherlock wills his heart to stop hammering in his chest. It’s beating so hard he thinks, for certain, that John must be able to hear it.

John turns away from the window, takes one look at him, and grins. “Nothing funny. Just—thought it might be nice to sit up all night, talk, like old times.”

“We never did that,” Sherlock reminds him, hating himself for his transparency, for the fact that John can read his anxiety and desire like an open book.

John shrugs. “Maybe we could start.” Like he wants to make a habit of it, like maybe, just maybe he’s thinking of staying.

“Alright.” It sounds awkward and stilted. Sherlock has lost his footing somewhere along the way. He wants John to stay, but words—words seem so inadequate for everything swiftly overwhelming him. There need to be words, many words, yes, certainly, but Sherlock doesn’t want words right now, in this moment, and with all his confidence gone he doesn’t quite know how to bridge the divide he feels building between them in the tight, anxious silence.

John laughs nervously, looks down at his feet, and rubs at the back of his neck before looking up again. “Guess we are shit at this.”

Sherlock chuckles back. “Some things never change.”

“Yeah.”

More silence.

Next-door someone has a television turned up too loud.

“You have any cases you need help on?”

Ahh… Familiar territory.

“I’m afraid not, though if you’re offering, I…”

“Oh yeah?” John sounds glad.

“Yes. If you don’t mind me giving you a call the next time I find myself in need of assistance?”

“No, no. ‘Course not. You should. Yeah.”

The silence again.

Sherlock wants it to end. He momentarily considers action. Stepping into the room, walking up to John until they are inches apart, reaching for him, and… And what? What would he do? What would he have the courage to do?

John wants, that much is clear, was very clear a few hours earlier, but John has always wanted on some level or another. That certainly didn’t mean that action on Sherlock’s part would have been welcome.

Or did it?

A couple of hours earlier John’s presence had crackled. His step had been confident. His appreciation and desire, blatant and unapologetic. But now he seems diminished, almost shy, which is not a trait Sherlock has ever associated with John.

Is John waiting? Is he hoping that Sherlock will do something?

“Should I fetch your chair?”

John’s head snaps up. “Oh yeah? Yeah, sure. You need help?”

“I would appreciate it.”

“Sure.”

Sherlock heads for his bedroom. John follows.

John had rarely gone into Sherlock’s bedroom. There had been a brief period in which the lines of intimacy had blurred, a year where John would knock once, walk in to ask him something, or bring his laundry in, folded neatly, lay it on the end of Sherlock’s bed. But then there had been the Adler case, Moriarty had happened, and there hadn’t been any more time.

Nothing much has changed. Sherlock has a new coverlet. John doesn’t mention it. He stands in the doorway, and stares at his chair across from the foot of the bed, placed beside Sherlock’s mirrored wardrobe. His eyes move briefly to the bed and back. 

“Why’d you put it there?”

And Sherlock considers being honest, for the briefest moments, considers confessing to the bad nights, where it was easier to imagine John there with the chair in place, easier to form the perfect simulacrum, to talk to him about things, and sometimes, very rarely— to fantasise. 

He shrugs.

John doesn’t move from his spot in the doorway.

“Right. Okay. But why?”

John pressing for an answer. Interesting.

It must have taken courage. Sherlock owes him the truth.

“It helped me to think, cleared my head, having you there.”

The corner of John’s mouth quirks up for the briefest of moments. “Having  _ me _ there? Across from your bed?”

Sherlock doesn’t look away. “Yes.”

_______________________________

John isn’t sure what to do with the confession, but it shoots something red hot through his veins. He feels a little of the heat from earlier return, knows Sherlock must see the flush moving up his neck, must see the change in his breathing, the way his mouth waters.

He licks his lips and shifts from one foot to the other.

“How?” 

It’s a stupid, probably obvious question, but John still can’t quite wrap his head around it, needs to be sure, needs to hear Sherlock say it. And he wonders how he will feel when Sherlock confesses it to be something purely mundane. Disappointed?

“Some nights it was hard to sleep.”

“Okay…”

Sherlock’s eyes are everywhere. He’s reading John like an open book. He’s deciding.

“I talked to you.”

“Oh.” And John does feel it, the dip and dive of disappointment, that odd feeling like thinking you’ve reached the bottom of the staircase and there still being one step more than you thought.

“Some nights I—I sat in it.”

“Okay.”

“Imagined you there with me.”

John feels a rush of adrenaline bloom, prickle over his skin, transmute into something else entirely.

John pushes away from the doorframe, steps into the room, and Sherlock steps back from the chair, unsure, uncertain.

John goes and sits. “Like this?”

Sherlock is looking down at him. He looks a little stunned. Not unsure, not exactly, but—tentative, careful. 

John hates it. It’s not Sherlock, and he doesn’t know what this is they are doing, but he needs to find a way to let Sherlock know that whatever it is, he wants it. He wants the risk. He hasn’t felt this alive in years.

“Show me?”

_____________________________

Oh.

John’s neck is flushed, but his lips are pale. His hands tremble on the arms of the chair, and Sherlock sees now, thinks he does at least. John wants this, but he wants Sherlock to be the one who…

The courage.

The courage it must be taking…

He can do this. He can do this for John.

“Get up.”

John looks confused, and a little hurt.

“Just for a moment,” Sherlock hurries to clarify.

John does.

Sherlock takes his place.

John stares down at him, brow knit in something like worry. Small.

“I would sit like this. And you would sit in my lap.”

John’s breath catches. His face goes scarlet. Sherlock is a little concerned that the blood rush might bring on a migraine. It’s been known to happen. 

But after a moment John’s shoulders square and he stands a little straighter. “You imagined me sitting in your lap?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted you there.”

John’s lips part, his tongue appears for the briefest of moments, slides over his lower lip, disappears again. He takes a deep breath.

“Clothed, or…?”

Sherlock smiles. “Sometimes.”

John’s hands are shaking so hard Sherlock can’t imagine he is unaware of it.

“Come here.”

John swallows dryly. “Why?”

“Come. Here.” Gentle, but insistent. 

John steps forward until his knee is pressed against the outside of Sherlock’s thigh. He looks down at him. “You want me to sit—in your lap?”

“I want you to do whatever you want to.”

This seems to throw John, and Sherlock sees his misstep in an instant. “Or, you can consider it an order.”

John’s eyebrows disappear into his fringe. “An order?”

“Yes.”

“And if I disobey it?”

“Do you want to?”

He doesn’t. Sherlock can see it. But it’s a dangerous game they’re playing, and Sherlock wonders if maybe he’s gotten this all wrong.

“What is this?” John stays where he is, leg pressed against Sherlock’s. His lips are parted as he waits for an answer, his pupils are large and dark.

“What you want.”

“What I want?”

“What we both want.” This confession seems to catch John up short. He sucks in a sharp breath.

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“From…” Sherlock swallows back an unexpected surge of emotion. “From the moment we met.”

John’s eyes go dark and with something quite different from the desire that had clouded them a moment before. “From the moment we met?”

“Yes.”

“No. No. You said, ‘married to my work’. You said it!”

“I know.”

“So what? You changed your mind?”

“That night, I… I panicked.”

“Panicked?”

“Yes.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

John huffs, and turns away with a shake of his head. He walks over to the bed, stops, turns. “So, you’re saying you had second thoughts almost right away, and you just chose not to say— _ anything _ ?!”

“It became swiftly and increasingly clear that though you had an interest, you were not inclined to follow through on it. I thought it best to let it lie.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault now!”

“No.”

“Well then…?”

“Well then, what?!” Sherlock snaps and gets to his feet. “I have laid myself bare to you, tonight. I would give you anything. I have tried to give you everything, and yet here we are, bickering, like a couple of anxious, bitter old men!”

Sherlock is as surprised as John looks by what has just come out of his mouth.

“Yeah, well maybe that’s exactly what I am,” John bites out. “An anxious. Bitter. Old. Man.”

“Nonsense.”

John growls in frustration and turns away again. “You accuse me of not wanting this.” He spins back around and points an accusatory finger in Sherlock’s direction. “I think that’s easy for you. I think you’re the one who doesn’t want it.”

“No.”

“Oh, so if I told you that I’ve wanted to fuck you since before we got to the restaurant tonight, you’d be alright with that?”

“Is that an invitation?”

John scowls. “What?”

“Are you asking to fuck me?”

John’s face goes blank. Stunned by the bluntness with which Sherlock has just reiterated his confession, perhaps?

After a moment of tense silence, Sherlock sighs. “I invited you back to the flat,  _ you _ asked to stay the night,” he reminds him. “That can be sleeping, or it can be anything else you might want. I am open to anything. Just tell me what you want.”

John blinks. “I…” He swallows dryly. Freezes.

Sherlock waits.

But when John’s breath begins to come quick, and shallow, and his eyes shift from anger and want to something that almost looks like fear, Sherlock knows that enough is enough. 

Wonder of wonders, John lets himself be gathered up. He stands stiff and unyielding, arms at his side, forehead pressed against Sherlock’s shoulder, everything from the chest down keeping a careful distance, but he lets it happen.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock finally tries. He feels the words register in John’s body.

“For what?” mumbled against Sherlock’s shirt.

“For not being braver. For not telling you everything, all of it, sooner. For leaving. For letting you go. For unravelling your life—more than once. Over and over. Please believe me, John, that was the very opposite of what I intended.”

And then there is silence.

A long stretch in a quiet room. The distant, muffled whisper of late night traffic on the other side of the house the only sound.

John finally shifts in his arms, and Sherlock thinks, for a brief moment, that he is going to pull away, but then he lifts a hand to his eyes, instead, and makes a small, wounded sound that lodges somewhere just beneath Sherlock’s heart, pulls, and twists, and bleeds.

John cries.

He pinches hard at the bridge of his nose, like it can stop the tears slowly soaking into the shoulder of Sherlock’s shirt. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“Sorry,” John manages, just, before he breaks again. “Always thought you didn’t want me.”

And Sherlock suddenly realises how horribly he has miscalculated, all this time, all these years. Not like him. Not at all like him to get something so important, so essential, so terribly wrong. Perhaps John was right, after all, perhaps there was some part of him that didn’t want it, that was as afraid of it all as John had always been.

Oh, he has never had the same crisis of identity that John has struggle with, he’s always tried to be unflinchingly honest with himself, and has never cared what people think of him, not really, but relationships, love, sex, all of those things have always seemed to be so fraught as to be almost not worth the effort. It’s true, he suddenly realises. He has both wanted and feared that wanting.

“I have wanted you every moment of every day since the moment you stepped into that lab with Mike, and that includes all the years we’ve spent apart. I’m sorry that I didn’t make that clear. I’m sorry I ran from it.”

John does pull away then. He steps back, turns away, and Sherlock’s heart sinks.

John walks to the other side of the room, around the bed, stares down at the few items laid out on the top of the dresser. His head is still bowed, the muscles in his shoulders pulled taut. Sherlock wants to do something, say something to make things right, but he doesn’t know how.

_______________________________

There is a photo on the dresser that John has never seen before; what he assumes to be Sherlock and Mycroft as children. Sherlock is small, slight, a riot of dark auburn curls, a light smattering of barely-there freckles, a yellow t-shirt smudged with dirt, and a handful of snails.

If not for the eyes, he never would have guessed the child to be Sherlock.

There’s something about the photo, the open, guileless delight in his eyes, the carefree, tousled, perfectly perfect imperfection of him, that gives John the courage he needs.

He’s still wearing Sherlock’s scarf. He pulls it off, folds it, lays it on top of the dresser. He shrugs out of his coat, turns, lays it on the end of the bed. He looks up at Sherlock, who looks stricken.

“I’d still like to stay—if that’s okay.”

Sherlock only nods.

“Tonight, I mean, and… Maybe we could talk about afterwards?”

Sherlock nods again.

“I’ll still have Rosie—part of the time at least. If you don’t want to… I’d understand.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s a lot, Sherlock.”

“Yes. I know. You did practically live here with her for well over six months.”

John had forgotten, somehow. How could he have? All those months Mary had been on the run, and Sherlock had insisted he stay at Baker Street. A long stretch when Sherlock had told him they could go and fetch Mary any time, any time John wanted, and John always found an excuse, put it off—days, weeks, months…

Why?

He knows.

He’s always known.

“Yeah. Right. Okay.” He runs a hand through his hair, stares down at the unmade bed. He wants to crawl in, he thinks. He wants to just lie there, wrapped in all the scents of home, and sleep, and sleep, and sleep.

He sits.

He sits on the edge of the bed, and stares down at his hands. They’re shaking. He balls them up, squeezes, releases.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes. Anything.” Sherlock sits back down in John’s chair, and John pivots to face him.

“When you asked me to come back to the flat tonight, was that an invitation?” John’s eyes drop away again. “I mean, for more than just a cuppa? Do you know what I’m asking?”

“You mean, was I offering up the opportunity for sex.”

John feels his cheeks heat. “Yeah.”

“It was an offer for you to come back here with me, and let the night lead us wherever it might. It could include that, if you want it to.”

“Do you?”

“I’m not averse to the idea.”

“Okay.” John rubs a hand down the length of his aching thigh. “Wasn’t sure. Was never really sure.”

“Well now you know.”

“Guess I never thought you were much into that sort of thing.”

“I’m not—particularly. There was a person in university. It ended rather poorly. We—were intimate. Beyond that, I’ve never seen the point.”

“Then why…?”

“Why you?”

“Yeah.”

“I suppose—because you’re you.”

John smiles. It’s a weak, disbelieving thing. “Not sure what that means.”

“Neither am I.”

John huffs, and stares down at his lap. “You want me?”

“So it seems. And you clearly want me, so…” He can hear the smile in Sherlock’s voice.

“So why not get on with it? That what you’re saying?”

Sherlock shrugs, but he’s grinning.

It makes something flip in John’s stomach, makes something break open inside him, and it’s not want, not really. He wonders if this is what joy feels like.

He tamps it down. 

“Sherlock, we’ve not said two words to each other for over two years, we can’t just meet up and an hour or two later jump into bed together.”

Sherlock’s smile fades, and John feels a right arse.

“Yes, I—I know,” Sherlock acknowledges.

“You know?”

“Yes.”

“Then what is this? What are we doing here?” 

“I don’t know. I—I suppose I just hoped you’d stay.”

___________________________

Somehow the confession seems so much more intimate than anything Sherlock has said to John before, and not just tonight, but on any night, and in any moment that has come before it.

John huffs, “So you thought you’d fuck me?”

“No. No, not like that.”

“Right. Okay. Then what?”

Sherlock wants to walk over, drop to his knees, press his face into John’s lap and beg, but he won’t. He won’t. He’s spent two long years without, and he had spent two years even before that. He can do it. He can survive. And yes, it is not living, not really. It’s mere survival, but it’s something, and maybe it’s enough.

“I won’t beg.” Sherlock tells him.

John’s face does something odd. “Never asked you to.”

“Not in words, no.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You’re afraid of it. You never asked me to beg, no, but you wanted, needed, me to be alright with the back and forth, the up and down, your inability to decide.”

“Decide what?” John sounds frustrated and a little scared.

“Who it is you really are. What it is you really want. If that includes me.” He sees the words hit their mark. “So no, I wasn’t planning on  _ fucking _ in the hopes it would make you stay, John. I—I suppose I just hoped you’d finally make a choice.”

John’s lips part, and his breathing shifts, quick and shallow. He shuts his mouth again, swallows hard. And Sherlock doesn’t let him out of it, not this time, it’s too important. He holds his gaze until the rims of John’s eyes go red, until they fill. This time John doesn’t look away. “I want you to.”

“Want me to what?” Sherlock sounds every bit as frustrated as he feels. He knows this is John trying, but he’s weary of it all. “Make a choice? I’ve made my choice. I thought that was clear. It’s you. It’s always been you.”

John shakes his head. “Fuck me. I want you to fuck me.”

Sherlock blinks. Stops breathing.

“I thought you said it was a bad idea,” he somehow manages.

“Sherlock…” Just his name from John’s lips, but it sounds desperate.

Oh.

Sherlock’s heart is hammering in his chest when he gets up, walks over to where John is sitting, fingers knotted in the duvet, eyes looking up at Sherlock filled with fear, and want, and hope.

Sherlock holds out his hand.

John looks down at it, back up, eyes clouded with confusion.

“Stand up,” Sherlock tells him, quietly and carefully.

He sees John understand. He gets up, stands there beside the edge of Sherlock’s bed, arms hanging limply at his side.

Sherlock steps into his space, waits, lets him get used to it. He can feel the heat coming off of John in waves.

He reaches for John’s hand, takes it, lifts it to his mouth, ghosts his lips over John’s knuckles, feels the shiver that passes through John’s body, turns his hand over, looks into his eyes, presses his lips to the inside of John’s wrist, and watches him stop breathing.

“Alright?”

John nods, lips parting.

And so Sherlock steps closer, lets go of John’s hand, lifts his fingers to John’s cheek, brushes a thumb over the spot where bare skin meets the line of his beard and kisses him.

John’s whole body goes taut, he sucks in a breath through his nose, moans into Sherlock’s mouth, and melts, his arms slipping around Sherlock’s waist, the whole of him pressing up against Sherlock’s body, and he starts to kiss him back in earnest, deepening the kiss at remarkable speed, like it’s broken something open inside of him, something he’s kept locked up for years.

___________________________

There is nothing now but this, the feeling of Sherlock’s lips, full, and warm, and dry against John’s. Sherlock’s fingers sliding down the length of John’s jaw, around the back of his neck, the slight, comforting weight of Sherlock’s palm against his nape, the firm squeeze, not painful, but reassuring and just a little possessive.

John whines despite himself, his body pushing up against Sherlock’s seeking the heat, the aching need for weight, friction, driving him instinctually. And then Sherlock is moving, pushing him back until John’s thighs make contact with the bed, until he has no choice but to sit, and that is when Sherlock drops to his knees in front of him, mouth pink and swollen, hair a riot from John’s exploring hands, and slides his hands slowly up the length of John’s clothed thighs.

John is hard again, almost painfully so. He twitches in his trousers as Sherlock’s fingers draw tantalisingly close.

“May I?” Sherlock sounds breathless.

“You don’t have to keep asking.”

“I’d rather I did.”

John doesn’t have words as Sherlock’s eyes meet his. He simply nods in affirmation.

He isn’t sure what he expected, but the gentle, exploratory way Sherlock runs a thumb up the hard length of John’s erection isn’t it. It isn’t that it isn’t hot. It is. The touch races like fire through him, sending a fresh surge of desire racing through his blood. He twitches again and watches Sherlock’s lips part, and his eyes glaze.

This time it’s his large, hot palm pressing up against John, and John’s hips buck on instinct, pressing into the touch, wanting, needing more.

“May I?” Sherlock whispers this time, fingers lingering at John’s belt.

“Yeah.” John sounds desperate and a little filthy, and he knows it. He is. He’s both. He’s been for years.

Sherlock’s fingers move swiftly then, unbuckling John’s belt, loosing his flies. He touches John’s hip lightly, when he’s finished with it and John lifts from the bed, lets Sherlock pull his pants and trousers down around his ankles, take them off completely, shoes, socks, all laid carefully to the side, and then Sherlock is there again, palms on John’s knees, staring up at him from beneath heavy lids. 

“May I?”

John nods.

‘ _ You’d bloody well better! _ ’ he wants to say, and doesn’t.

Sherlock dips down, and John stops breathing.

There is a kiss to the inside of his knee.

He blinks. 

Another to the inside of the other.

And then there is the slightly rough slide of Sherlock’s cheek against the inside of his thigh. It’s late in the day, it’s to be expected, but the sensation is novel and sharp, and John’s hips arch up into the touch, and Sherlock hums softly, cheek, lips, hands moving upwards until he is close enough to take John in if he wanted to.

His eyes are closed. He presses his nose to the root of him, breath wafting softly over John’s balls, and John watches a small bead of precome bloom at the head of his own cock, and spill over, sees Sherlock register it, breathe deep, press his mouth to the spot, slide of tongue, lapping it up with a deep moan, and then he takes John in and everything goes white.

John grunts at the unexpected intensity of the pleasure, falls back against the mattress, arm slung over his eyes, and thrusts into the wet, hot heat of Sherlock’s mouth as Sherlock moans in appreciation. John takes it as encouragement, does it again and again, blind with need. Aching. Burning. 

John has always run on the large side, and there have been many a partner who struggled to accommodate him when doing this, but Sherlock’s mouth is large, and the tight, wet heat is all encompassing. It isn’t going to take long, John suddenly realises. For months he hadn’t even been able to coax an orgasm at his own hand, had thought he was broken, but now, this, only moments in, and he’s going to come down Sherlock’s throat like a horny teenager.

“Christ. Stop. Stop, okay.”

Sherlock does, nearly falls back with the speed at which he disengages. John looks down the length of his body, takes in his own cock, purple and wet, Sherlock’s mouth, swollen, one hand between his legs, and John almost comes again.

“It’s okay. Just gonna come if you don’t…”

Sherlock’s lips form into an ‘O’ of understanding. He smiles. “Wouldn’t want that. Just getting started.”

It’s deep and filled with promise, and John shivers, and smiles, and falls back against the bed again, squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah? Well, get on with it then.”

He hears Sherlock chuckle. “So demanding, Captain. Is it the military training, do you think?”

“Maybe…” John teases back, naturally, like this is something they’ve always been doing, like he isn’t lying here naked and vulnerable in front of the only person he has ever considered his best friend, the only person who he’s ever chosen to live for, body and soul, the one and only person who he’d given the power to hurt him, over, and over, and over—until he hadn’t.

But he wants to be here, he realises with blinding clarity. That’s the risk he’d always found so heady, the potential for vulnerability, all the terror of it, all the promise—the surrender. 

He wants to give himself over, wants to submit, would let Sherlock kill him, probably, if he asked. There is something intoxicatingly erotic about the thought of it, some sort of slow, intimate murder. Sherlock has been killing him for years, after all, the worst of it when he’d jumped, forced John to watch him fall, forced John to once again realise that he could never be enough, even when it mattered the most.

John has never been right in the head, and he knows it, and Sherlock fits. He understands, or doesn’t care. He’s odd and misunderstood himself. They’re a matched set, and John wants this now, whatever this is, wants Sherlock to take him apart, piece by piece, to pierce him to the core, flay him alive. 

There is the sound of a belt unclasping, the soft shush of fabric dropping. Sherlock is undressing. “Have you done this before?”

John barks out a laugh, and opens his eyes. Sherlock is standing at the edge of the bed in nothing but a pair of black pants. He looks painfully hard.

“What? Sex?”

“Don’t be stupid. I mean anal.”

John feels his cheeks heat. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, a few times.”

“Good. What position do you like?”

“Usually I’m on all fours, and she…”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. I want to see your face. Is that alright?”

John nods.

“Good. Slide up. put one of those pillows under your hips.”

_____________________________

John does as he’s told, and Sherlock feels drunk at the sight of him, naked from the waist down, erection flagging slightly, but still flushed and full between his bent legs.

Sherlock had never thought or dared to fantasise about something like this, John giving himself over so willingly. In all his fantasies Sherlock had either been comforter or vessel. Holding John in his pain, or giving his body up as a means for John to excise it. He had never imagined that what John really wanted was the simple freedom to let go, to be held up.

A horrible blindspot in retrospect. Almost unforgivable, and possibly the source of the bulk of their misunderstandings over the years. It is a failing he aims to rectify now, if John will let him.

Sherlock pulls his pants down, and crawls onto the bed.

He doesn’t want to take John quite yet, he realises, all of this is too new, precious, something to be savoured, rather than rushed.

“Change of plans.”

“What?” John cranes his neck, stares down the length of his body, with a slight frown. 

Sherlock smiles, and pulls the pillow out from beneath John’s hips. “I’m not finished exploring.”

He sees the irritation fade from John’s eyes, the corners of his mouth quirk in curiosity.

“Take off your shirt. I want to see all of you.”

And John hurries to do as asked. Sherlock takes the opportunity to get up, go to the wardrobe. He owns a single necktie. A plain, ugly thing his brother had forced him to wear to a hearing he’d had with his handlers at MI-6 when he was in his twenties. He’d always saved it, a memento and a warning never to allow himself to be forced into someone else’s mould again.

He pulls it out, runs the smooth silk over his palm. It will do.

“I’m going to tie you up.” He turns and sees John’s eyes widen, his cheeks go pink, and his cock twitch against his belly. 

“Yeah? Yeah, okay.”

When Sherlock returns to the bed, he wastes no time in crawling atop John’s body, straddling his hips and settling back against his thighs. John’s hips roll, and Sherlock grins. “Give me your hands.”

John does, and Sherlock wraps his wrists in a firm restraint. “I’d tie you to the bedpost if I had one. Perhaps I need a new bed.”

“Yeah,” all John manages, lips parted, breath quick, eyes glazed.

“Hands over your head, and leave them there.”

John does, and Sherlock decides to get back to the festivities at hand. He trails his fingers over the contours of John’s chest, watches his nipples peak at the sensation. He pinches one gently, sees John’s cock fill a little more, stand up, straining, wanting. 

He traces John’s ribs, slides a finger over his abdomen, lower, watches as one, and then two drops bead up at the head of John’s cock and spill over. Sherlock’s mouth waters. He hadn’t been done before, when John had stopped him. He’d still had so much to taste, and touch, and…

John’s chest rises and falls faster and faster as his breathing quickens. He’s panting now. Desperate, and Sherlock hasn’t even done anything, not really. He won’t last, and Sherlock doesn’t care. This is heady, the knowledge that he is so desired, that there are things he is giving John that possibly only he can.

He presses his thumbs to John’s hipbones, moves them in a slow, firm circle, and feels his own cock throb when John whines and thrusts upward, seeking friction that Sherlock won’t give him, not yet.

“Don’t come.” Sherlock orders, though he’s curious to see if John might, if he could untouched.

John lets out a small whimper at the order, his head thrashing from side to side between his bound arms.

“Look at me.”

John’s eyes slide open. He looks drunk.

“Are you alright?”

John nods.

“Say it.”

“Yeah. ‘M okay.”

“Alright. Close your eyes again.”

John does, and Sherlock slides down his body, and takes John into his mouth. John lets out a small shout of surprise, and then starts to thrust into Sherlock’s mouth, almost frantically, hitting the back of Sherlock’s throat each time. Sherlock presses his hips to the bed, firmly.

“Shhh…”

John stills.

“Don’t come.” Sherlock reminds him before getting back to work. 

He takes his time with it, working the underside of John’s cock with the flat of his tongue, two fingers wrapped around the base, other hand stroking the inside of John’s thighs, a kiss there, too, now and again, for good measure, and then a series of long, slow pulls. But John has gone rather quiet now, overwhelmed with it all, concentrating maybe, wanting to please, or maybe…

Sherlock stops, looks up. John is very still, hands still bound above his head, face pressed into one arm.

“John?”

And still there is nothing.

Damn.

Sherlock crawls up the length of his body, unbinds his hands, pulls him in, and tries his best to pull the edge of the coverlet up and over him. 

Still John says nothing, though he does seem to draw closer, to curl into the warmth of Sherlock’s body and stay.

“I’m sorry. It was a lot for one evening, and you said… I shouldn’t have rushed it.”

John shakes his head against Sherlock’s chest. “Not your fault.”

“Alright.”

He isn’t sure how long they lie together. The city outside has gone totally quiet. It must be snowing properly, then. The flat is cool and still, too. The couple in the adjoining flat have clearly gone to bed for the night.

John shivers and Sherlock pulls him a little closer.

“Sorry.” John sounds impossibly young.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

“Wanted it. I did.”

“I know.”

“Still do.”

“Perhaps later.”

“Ok.”

Sherlock listens to John’s breathing slow and deepen, relishes in the closeness, the warmth, just the simple, clean scent of his hair pressed under Sherlock’s nose, the way he draws even closer in sleep, and he wonders how long John has been holding on, holding in, how long it’s been since John has felt safe enough to sleep like this, deep, unhindered.

Perhaps never, Sherlock thinks. John has had nightmares as long as Sherlock has known him. They would often wake him in the first few hours of sleep, and then again near dawn. If they were bad enough John would sometimes just not bother to sleep at all. He’d stayed up three days straight, once, had fallen asleep sitting up at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee, and then started awake with a shout soon after. He’d had a couple of drinks then, and finally slept. 

Sherlock had taken a case in east Sussex after that. A little break, away from the city. There is one in his inbox, currently, in Cornwall. He might consider asking John. A murder to solve at Christmas—John would like that.

John stirs and Sherlock holds him a little tighter. 

He wonders if they will do this again. He wonders if John will stay. He hopes so. He tired of all the fits and starts. He’s tired of being angry at one another, hurting one another, all the forced separation, the lies, the games, the betrayal. He’d never wanted any of it. He’d only, ever wanted John, but he was so ill-equipped. They both were.

But maybe now… Maybe…

_____________________________________

When John was nine he’d spent the summer at his aunt’s house, his mother’s sister who had died of cancer a year later. It had been the first time in his life that he had been permitted to sleep as long as he liked and with the window open, had been expected to make his own breakfast, keep his own schedule, find his own ways to entertain himself. 

The freedom had been terrifying and disorienting. But then his aunt, possibly realising she was dealing not with an average child, but rather with a caged dog who craved structure and care more than freedom, had started to institute a schedule, structure, a few rules firmly, but kindly enforced, and John had thrived. It was possibly the happiest summer of his life. He had never eaten or slept so well. He had never enjoyed himself more—until he’d joined the army.

As wakefulness slowly claims him he feels a little of that old comfort, and wonders why. He’s warm. He’s well-rested. There is the need to piss, and a slight headache, the result of not having had a drink in several hours, but other than that… Well, John would be content to stay just as he is for hours, he thinks. Warm, surrounded in the still, soft quiet, gentle breath ruffling the hair at his fringe.

His eyes pop open with a small surge of adrenaline. He blinks at a smooth, pale clavicle. 

Not his flat.

Not alone.

221b.

Sherlock.

Shit.

But the weight of Sherlock’s arm slung over his waist is grounding. The sensation of his breath in John’s hair, comforting and a bit arousing.

They may still be a couple of rash idiots, but John wants to be here, he realises. He hasn’t wanted to be anywhere but here for almost a decade. It’s been a long time coming.

He rolls away slowly, not wanting to wake Sherlock, grabs his clothes off the floor and pads to the loo. He relieves himself and then stands and stares at his face in the mirror as he washes his hands. He looks bloody awful, dark rings under his eyes, and a slight greyish pallor to his skin. It’s the drinking mostly—and the stress. He needs to quit both, but doesn’t know how.

He runs a hand over his eyes, splashes some cold water over his face, and then dresses and strolls into the kitchen. A brief glance out the kitchen window reveals an alley and scant gardens buried under a couple inches of white. It’s beautiful and still. It feels a bit magical, like Christmas morning, or at least the way John imagines Christmas morning is supposed to feel.

Surprisingly there is food in the fridge. Mrs. Hudson’s doing, no doubt. Eggs, sausage, bread and butter on the counter, coffee in the cupboard.

John gets to work. He’s hungry, he realises. He decides to cook for two. He’s never been one to wake Sherlock with food. The rule was, don’t wake Sherlock for anything if he’s finally sleeping, but he clearly needs feeding up, and John supposes he might be forgiven, just this once.

It feels good to be moving around the old, familiar kitchen again. Everything is still surprisingly easy to find, the majority of it still in its usual spaces. It still feels like home, he realises. He can still navigate here. He still belongs. 

When the food is ready, John plates it and wanders back to the bedroom. He sets the plate down on the nightstand, and sits down on the edge of the bed, lays a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s nose wrinkles and relaxes. He stirs, hums softly and then settles again. 

John smiles. “Sherlock.”

“Mm.”

“Come on. Wake up. I brought you breakfast.”

Sherlock’s brow wrinkles, his eyes open. He stares up at John clearly confused.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m here. Last night, remember. I’ve made you some breakfast.”

Sherlock’s eyes drift to the plate on the nightstand and then back to John’s face.

“Wasn’t sure you’d stay.”

John feels it like a punch to the gut. “Wasn’t so sure myself, but—I’m staying—if that’s okay.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock is looking at John like he’s a crime scene, a veneer of violence and gore that hides a deeper story, one Sherlock craves more than cocaine, truths he needs like he needs air.

He smiles. “What did you make me?”

“Eggs—over hard, the way you like them, don’t worry—sausage, toast with jam, coffee. You’re going to eat it.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows lift. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

He winks and moves to sit up. “Mmm. If you say so, Captain.”

John huffs and shakes his head, but hands the plate to Sherlock once he’s sitting up and settled.

“Are you eating?”

“Yeah. Just gotta plate it up.”

“Then do it, and come back in here with me.”

“Yeah? Okay.”

It’s strange, and somehow not, to crawl under the blankets, plate of food balanced on one knee, and to have breakfast in bed with Sherlock. John has never had breakfast in bed with anyone. The sorts of women he’d dated had never been the type to do it for him, and he’d never really stuck around long enough or cared enough to do it for them. And Mary—well Mary had just never been the breakfast in bed type. She was more the ‘let’s go grab a coffee, and watch the sun rise from Jubilee Bridge’ type. 

Truth be told, John never would have pegged Sherlock as being keen on it either, but things change. People change. John has changed.

When he finishes eating, he leans back against the pillows and lets his eyes slide shut.

“Are you going to sleep again?” Sherlock asks.

John shrugs. “Might do. Snowed out—a lot. I probably need to wait to go home again.”

“Ahh. Well, I might, too, then.”

John opens his eyes, and rolls his head along the headboard to stare over at Sherlock. “Oh yeah?”

_________________________

They both sink back down beneath the covers. John lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. Sherlock rolls onto his side and stares at John.

John’s gotten dressed, which is unfortunate.

They’ve both just eaten, so likely neither will be up for the promises of the night before, but perhaps just a little something…

“Last night…” Sherlock dares.

John’s eyes remain fixed to the ceiling. He says nothing.

“Was it alright?”

John nods.

“Are you alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” John doesn’t sound angry, not really. A little confused, maybe, a little irritated.

Sherlock chooses to ignore the question. “Good.” 

John does look over then, searches Sherlock’s face carefully, and then smiles. “Why? You thinking you want another go?”

Sherlock shrugs, but grins back. “Possibly.”

“Possibly?” John teases.

“Definitely.”

John huffs, and shakes his head. “Yeah? Okay.”

But Sherlock hesitates then. John had been right the night before. They can’t spend two years estranged and then just leap into bed together and expect it to all disappear. If anything the very idea is dangerous. And true, dangerous is what John likes, dangerous is what they have always done and been, but look at where it had got them.

“But maybe not this morning.”

A wrinkle forms between John’s brow. He looks almost hurt, and Sherlock doesn’t want that. They’ve had enough of that—all the misunderstandings.

“Last night you told me we should wait.”

John’s eyes return to the ceiling. His whole body has gone tense. “And then we didn’t. Listen, if you’ve changed your mind it’s fine. It’s all fine. I’ve always said…”

“No,” Sherlock interrupts. “No. That’s not what this is, and that’s not what I’m saying.”

John says nothing.

“What changed?” Sherlock presses.

John’s eyes dart over to him for a moment, before returning to the crack running through the plaster above the bed. “What?”

“Between you not wanting to jump into things last night and then—jumping into things. What changed.”

John shrugs. “It’s been awhile. Been a fucking long time, actually. Can you get that? Sometimes a bloke just wants…”

“So I’m what? Convenient?”

John’s eyes snap to his at that. “No.”

“Then what?”

Sherlock has John’s full attention now, eyes locked, John unable to look away. Sherlock can see him try, see the struggle, but Sherlock holds him fast. “What is this to you?”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because?”

“Because it matters to me. This matters. You matter.”

He can see it catch John up.

John looks away again, squeezes his eyes shut, pinches at the bridge of his nose, and then speaks. “Maybe I just wanted.” His eyes drop to the mattress between them before returning to Sherlock’s. “Maybe I wanted you, have wanted you, for—for as long as I can remember, okay, and last night I knew it was a shite idea. I knew that we shouldn’t, that it wouldn’t solve anything, but I just—I wanted to.” The confession is little more than a whisper.

“And then what?”

“What?”

“We sleep together, and then what?”

“What do you mean what?”

“I mean, do you stay or do you go?!” Sherlock snaps.

“I told you I’d like to stay.”

“For how long?”

“Listen, I didn’t come back to your flat last night to be interrogated.”

“No, you came back here for a fuck, evidently.”

“Which you said you were okay with!!” John pushes up and out of the bed, starts to toe into his shoes. “Listen, this was obviously a shit idea. I’m leaving. I’m just going, okay. We’ll pretend it didn’t happen. It didn’t. Nothing did. It’s fine, just… Don’t call me.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

John leaves.

Sherlock listens to his feet clatter down the stairs. He hesitates for a moment, at the bottom, perhaps listening to see if Sherlock will follow, but then the front door slams, and Sherlock is alone again.

…

Shit.

SHIT.

Sherlock springs out of bed, and is halfway down the hallway before he remembers that he is naked. He dashes back into the bedroom, nearly falls trying to step into a pair of ratty pyjama bottoms, throws on a dressing gown, and runs downstairs.

It’s still snowing when he yanks open the front door and scans the street.

It’s all but abandoned in the weak, early morning light, but at the far end he can see John’s back as he heads for the tube station. He runs to catch up with him.

“John!”

John stops just before he’s about to cross the street, and turns, eyes widening, as Sherlock skids to a halt in front of him, breathless.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock blurts. 

John frowns.

“Not for questioning what happened last night, and where we go from here, not that,” Sherlock clarifies. “But for making you think I didn’t want this, for making you feel like I was forcing a confession, or…”

“A confession?” The corner of John’s mouth quirks.

“Stay.”

“Had planned on it until you got all…” John waves his wand around vaguely as though that explains it.

“I’m an idiot.”

John snorts. “A lot of the time, yeah, but… You were right, maybe, this time. We maybe should talk about things.”

Sherlock feels some of the desperate, anxious tension drain from him. He feels cold.

“I believe that was your idea.”

“Yeah, well I guess I’m the genius then. Listen…” John’s eyes take in the length of him. “Christ, are you not wearing anything on your feet?”

Sherlock stares down at his white toes, buried in a good inch of snow and looking slightly blue at the tips.

“Oh.”

John sighs, and grabs at Sherlock’s forearm, turning him around, and gives him a soft shove back in the direction of the flat. “Inside. Jesus.”

Sherlock lets himself be herded. The warmth of the carpet in the entrance hall is a welcome relief against his icy toes, the warmth of John’s hand in his as he drags him back upstairs, the warmth of his body against Sherlock’s as he pushes him up against the wall at the top, the warmth of his lips pressed against Sherlock’s, dry and seeking, a little careful but firm and sure all the same, all are welcome.

John kisses, and kisses, and kisses him. He kisses him until Sherlock forgets the tight, cold anxiety that had been gripping him since the night before, until he forgets the bleak emptiness of all the years they’d spent apart, until he believes, really believes, that John might want to, might be able to stay.


	3. Chapter 3

John has no idea if this is the right decision. Sherlock is right. They’re both right. They need to talk about it, about everything, all the hurts, all the misunderstandings, all the ways they have and will hurt one another, but they’re both shit at it, and they’re both empty, aching—so fucking lonely, and this feels right, Sherlock’s body against his, their mouths pressed against one another, seeking, reaching, tongues tangled lazily, hands in hair, slipping up beneath layers of clothing, icy cold on heated skin, quick breaths and soft moans, no rush, the illusion of all the time in the world.

John could die here, he thinks. He could die here and accept this as his heaven. More heaven than he deserves, certainly, and one that he had spent his whole life denying himself.

They’ve spent the last 12 hours dancing around one another, a fitting microcosm of their entire on again-off again, near decade-long relationship, he thinks. He’s tired of dancing. He’s never liked it. This is better, the staying, the stillness, the sinking into one another.

John feels Sherlock regain a little of his footing after a few minutes, his hands press against John’s back, pull him in against his body. Their heights are misaligned, and none of it will work the way they both need.

Sherlock growls low in the back of his throat, tries to lift John up and in, and fails. And then they are in the bedroom again, somehow, and John’s clothes are gone, Sherlocks gone, and John is being pressed down into the mattress with the weight of Sherlock’s body, breath stolen by Sherlock’s kisses, deeper and deeper.

John’s body is wide awake, burning, hyper-aware of every sensation, desperate this time, desperate to not end it all too soon.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock’s voice, low and rough in his ear.

John nods, remembers the night before, forces himself to give it voice. “Fine. Just—don’t stop.”

Sherlock’s mouth crashes hot against his neck, his hands cool and seeking, ghost against John’s ribs, over his shoulders, find his upper arms and grip hard, and John arches up against the weight of him, feels the way their bodies slide easily together, slick with sweat again, already, despite having just been out in the cold.

Sherlock slides long and hard over John’s belly and he moans, a gorgeous sound that travels straight to John’s cock.

“Don’t stop.” John reminds him, breathless, hard and throbbing. 

“Had—hadn’t planned on it.”

It's heady hearing Sherlock so breathless, almost at a loss of words. It’s better than John could have imagined. And he had imagined it—so many times. Moments he had considered weak and desperate, but moments that had helped keep him alive, none-the-less.

He feels alive now.

Lit up.

Burning.

Bright.

‘’Tie me up,” he manages, and shivers at the moan it elicits from Sherlock, in return.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock mouths behind his ear.

“Do it.”

Sherlock produces the silk tie from the night before, seemingly out of nowhere. It had been left in the bed, John supposes, tucked under a pillow. He presents his wrists to Sherlock, and is impressed at the way Sherlock ties him, just firm enough to hold, to hurt a little if he struggled, but not so tight it makes his fingers numb.

He throws his hands over his head, and rolls his hips when Sherlock is done, and Sherlock’s lips part, his eyelids droop, and his head falls back to expose the long, pale column of his neck. John’s mouth waters.

“Now finish what you started.”

It’s not an order, not really. More of a plea. John should be embarrassed at that, worried by it, but he isn’t. He’s bound firm and at Sherlock’s mercy, and there’s nothing he wants more.

______________________________

_ Finish what you started. _

It’s about last night, all that had been cut short, but it’s about more than that. Sherlock knows it, and given the look in John’s eye, he does too.

Sherlock had been the one to flirt first, shamelessly, hungrily. John had responded and been shot down when Sherlock had panicked. It had been a long and painful eight years since. 

Finish what you started.

Sherlock intends to.

He pins John’s wrists for good measure, looks at his face. His eyes are clear, a bit defiant. His cheeks and chest are flushed. His cock is hard and hot against the underside of Sherlock’s balls as he sits cradled in John’s lap.

Sherlock suddenly remembers the lube, launches off of John, out of the bed, pulls at the top drawer of the nightstand so fiercely it clatters to the floor.

He hears John laugh, but he finds the bottle of lube in record time, climbs back in and over, dispenses a little, slicks it between his hands for warmth and then freezes. John is staring up at him, expectant. He’s smiling.

“Go on,” he urges.

It’s been a very long time, and Sherlock hopes he’ll live up to John’s expectations, expectations that have no doubt grown exponentially with each passing year, with each parting, with each lonely night filled only with his own fevered hopes and fantasies.

He reaches down with both hands, takes John in one and himself in the other, one long, synchronised stroke that sends electric pleasure shooting to his abdomen, down his thighs, that makes John hiss and arch beneath him, makes him strain at his bonds and thrust into the tight circle of Sherlock’s fist. Sherlock lets go, takes them both together in one hand, and can barely keep his wits about him, as John continues to writhe and thrust beneath him, slick and hot against the backs of Sherlock’s fingers, the underside of his cock.

Sherlock isn’t going to last, he suddenly realises. It’s been too long, and he’s too far gone, drunk on pleasure and drunk on John. 

“John,” he somehow manages, a warning and an appeal, but John just grins, throws his head back and keeps on, straining harder and harder at his bonds. His nipples peak, the veins in his forehead stand out, and he grunts softly with the effort, and it’s too much, all of it at once. It’s too much delicious data to take in. 

Sherlock’s brain whites out and his body takes over, sheer feral instinct. He falls forward, bracing himself up with one arm, while somehow, miraculously keeping his grip on their cocks with his other. He’s sweating. He’s making sounds he’s never heard come out of his own mouth. He leans down and smears his mouth over John’s, rubs his cheek against the roughness of John’s beard, novel, electric.

John thrusts faster, cranes his neck up to capture Sherlock’s mouth again, tongue plunging deep, fierce and hungry.

Sherlock can’t breathe, can’t think. There’s only John’s heat, his scent, the slick friction of his body, the sound of his breath, his moans, the desperate way his body rocks and slides against Sherlock’s.

“John.”

“Don’t stop.” And that does sound like an order. Sherlock meets John’s thrusts with a squeeze and slight twist of his hand, and John barks in surprise, and then thrusts faster, frantic, and Sherlock lets go, stops trying to hold back, and lets it take him.

His arm gives out when he comes, slamming their bodies together, and he is vaguely aware of John’s bound wrists coming down around the back of his neck, and John’s hips arching up off the mattress, his cock pulsing hot, spilling between their bodies at almost the same instant as Sherlock’s does.

The room is filled with the sound of their combined moans and whines of pleasure, the slowing of breath, the slick slip of skin against skin, as they both wring the last of the pleasure from their softening bodies. 

And then there is quiet.

John’s arms are draped around Sherlock’s shoulders, clasped hands resting on his upper spine. He doesn’t seem inclined to move.

He huffs softly. “So much for talking first. That was my fault, I guess.”

“’S fine,” Sherlock manages.

“Mm.”

Sherlock’s phone buzzes on his nightstand. He ignores it. It’s probably his brother, snooping about the CCTV again.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm.”

“You mind moving?”

Oh. He manages it, somehow, rolls off John, and lies on his back staring at the ceiling. The air in the room feels cold against his cooling skin.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock glances over, and John is holding out his bound wrists.

“Oh yes.” He unties them, and frowns at the red rings around John’s wrists. “Does that hurt?”

John shrugs with a grin. “A bit. Might leave a mark. I kinda like that.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. Problem?”

Sherlock shakes his head, and takes John in with new eyes. “Just considering the possibilities…”

John’s smile widens and then fades. He glances down at Sherlock’s body, and then at his. “We’re a mess.”

“Yes.”

“Shower?”

“Together?”

John shrugs again. “Or not. Whatever you like.”

“Alright.”

_____________________________

It was good. Really good, and there’s so much more to discover and explore if only they can find a way to make things work this time.

Sherlock is uncharacteristically quiet as John turns on the shower and stands back to wait for the water to run hot. When it finally does, he gets in, holds the curtain open for Sherlock, who seems a tad hesitant, but does finally join him.

John steps under the warm spray and sighs as the water sluices through his hair, and over the dried sweat and come on his body. He soaps down, rinses off.

“Hand me the shampoo.” A bottle is pressed into his hand, and he washes his hair, quickly and efficiently and then opens his eyes again.

Sherlock is standing at the far end of the tub, shivering and staring at him. John frowns. “You okay?”

Sherlock nods.

“Yeah, probably not big enough for two in here. Come on. Your turn.”

They switch places, and Sherlock washes in silence, shuts off the water, gets out. John follows, a little thrown, but gratefully takes the towel Sherlock hands him, dries his hair and body, and then wraps it around his waist.

He reaches out and touches Sherlock’s elbow. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Sherlock echoes back at him.

“You’re not okay. What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing.”

John shakes his head. “No. That’s not going to work, remember. We’ve tried that. Got us nowhere.”

Sherlock sighs and turns away, starts to dispense product into his hair, and meets John’s eyes in the mirror. “It had been a very long time.”

“Since you slept with someone?”

“Yes.”

“Was it—okay?”

“Yes.”

“But…?”

Sherlock sighs and turns his eyes back to his curls. “No but.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“The other person was—he was important to me at the time, but what we did was new and novel, and I suppose there was a kind of thrill to it. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed him, until it all went wrong…”

“You worried we’re going to go wrong again?”

Sherlock’s eyes drop to the sink, and he grips the edges of the cold porcelain like he’s holding on for dear life. “I don’t know.”

“We might, you know.”

“Yes.”

“I’m willing to try, Sherlock, to really try, but I’m not sure I’m cut out for…”

“Yes.”

“I want this, if that helps. I want you. I want us. I miss us.”

Sherlock’s eyes meet his own in the mirror again. They’re red-rimmed. “I didn’t expect to feel…”

“You didn’t expect to feel anything if we slept together?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not this.” He sounds stricken, undone. “I’d forgotten, I suppose.”

“Forgot what?”

“What it was I felt for you once.”

John feels his heart stutter and stop, feels the breath go out from his lungs. “When was this?”

“All the time. Back then. When you lived here. After I left. After you left. All the time.”

“And what was it—“ John swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “That you felt?”

Sherlock’s eyes are pleading.

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock turns, then, a small bead of water clings to the tip of one curl, hovering there. His eyes look redder, full. “I always wondered how it was you never knew, never saw. I thought it was because you didn’t want to.”

“Sherlock,” John begs.

“I forgot how much I loved you. I had no idea that seeing you again would…”

A lump rises in John’s throat. “Jesus…”

Sherlock’s eyes drop to the floor. He looks defeated, ashamed John thinks. He’s probably got it all wrong, John’s reaction. 

“You loved me?”

“Of course I loved you.” Like there was no other logical outcome.

“Yeah. Okay. But I mean—you were in love with me?”

“Yes. Very astute John.” It’s biting and angry. Hit a nerve then. Got to the truth.

Jesus.

Jesus Christ.

All that time, all those years of never feeling enough and yet…

“Yeah, well—I loved you too.” Sherlock’s eyes snap up and John huffs, shakes his head, looks away. “Always thought you barely tolerated me. Kept it to myself because it always felt so unwelcome. How the fuck was I supposed to guess, hmm?”

“I’m sorry.” And Sherlock sounds it. He sincerely sounds it, for bloody once.

“Yeah, well—good. Good, because so am I.”

A stillness descends between them. There is nothing but the soft pat-pat of the faucet dripping in the tub, the sound of their breathing.

“John…”

“Mm?” John looks up. Sherlock looks different he thinks, like a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

“I still do.”

It should make him angry, John thinks, all those wasted years, all that time apart, all the misplaced anger, the loss, the self-loathing, the abuse they hurled at one another in an attempt to sublimate all the wanting, yearning, needing.

But now that all is said and done, it’s only relief he feels. He can breathe—finally. He can be. It’s good to let it all go and just live.

“Me too.”


End file.
